


indiscreet

by artificialmeggie (ohmymeggs)



Series: Behind Closed Doors [7]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Avengers Anthology, Canon Compliant, Light Smut, M/M, S11 Tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 03:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19844929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmymeggs/pseuds/artificialmeggie
Summary: They do okay when it comes to keeping their relationship a secret. Mostly because they invent an Emoji code. It’s Brooke’s idea, but it’s inspired by Vanjie, who texts primarily in Emojis and swear words. But that was before.





	indiscreet

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Mia (moon of my life, my sun and stars) for being a constant source of support and comfort, and to the rest of the Avengers for playing along with my crazy idea. We did a thing. Isn’t it lovely?

Brooke is tremendous at keeping secrets.

Birthday surprises, Christmas presents, the fact that he made the top four (and later top two) on _Drag Race_ … Not a problem. He’s essentially Fort Knox.

Vanessa is abysmal at keeping secrets.

Surprise parties are always a surprise to him as well as to the guest of honor because he can’t be trusted; he has to buy presents right before they’re to be given because he can’t wait any longer than that to give them to their recipients. It’s a problem. He’s basically a sieve.

It never bothered Brooke that Vanjie can’t keep a secret. In fact, he’s always found it kind of endearing. It was another quirk, another personality trait he loved to explore during their relationship. They’d never made any milestones (a couple of monthaversaries, but not to any major holidays or even to Brooke’s birthday), but Brooke had still learned that if he wanted something to stay a secret but had to get it off his chest, he needed to go to Nina or Courtney and not to Vanessa.

They do okay when it comes to keeping their relationship a secret. Mostly because they invent an Emoji code. It’s Brooke’s idea, but it’s inspired by Vanjie, who texts primarily in Emojis and swear words. They choose the detective (because they’re being sneaky); the magnifying glass (“let them follow the clues, bitch”); the pair of eyes (“I see you, and you look damn fine,” used usually when one of them feels especially thirsty); and the orange heart (the most sentimental by far; inspired by the proverbial cat coming out of the bag during the Orange Alert runway. Neither one of them liked orange before. Now they kind of love it). They haven’t expressly said what the heart means, not in so many words, but they both _know_ what it stands for.

But that was _before_.

Vanessa is the one who ended it.

Brooke takes the blame, is able to shoulder that hurt and responsibility and criticism a little better than America’s sweetheart Miss Vanjie can. Vanessa has much more to lose by admitting that their fairy tale romance is over.

So Brooke accepts responsibility, deletes the messages from angry fans, internalizes the messages from nice ones. Tucks them into his heart for the times he needs them most.

But it weighs on him. His sister tells him it isn’t right that he’s protecting Vanessa by martyring himself. “You can’t burn yourself out to keep others lit,” she says one night when Brooke calls her at three a.m., drunk and sad and still so in love he thinks it’s actually killing him, eating him from the inside, the deadliest parasite.

Then they go on tour.

The contracts were signed months ago, when things between them were still sunny, before seeing the banner notifications “vanessavanjie liked your post,” “vanessavanjie liked your tweet” (the only notifications he still has on) sent tiny daggers of pain down his veins, into the chambers of his heart, slicing at the cardiac muscle, turning it to ribbons the color of Vanessa’s entrance dress (“I forgot how much I liked this dress” he comments because he is drunk and stupid and in love).

They’re on tour together and it’s fine, it’s _fine_ until Vanjie comes home drunk from the bar one night and can’t find his room. So Brooke takes him into his own room, tucks him into his own bed, holds him against his chest as they sleep. Like old times. Like nothing has changed.

In the morning, he lets Vanessa kiss him, touch him, fuck him because he’s missed this, missed _them_ , and being together like this, through the pain and hurt and all the goddamn bullshit is better than nothing.

“It…” Brooke had sighed between the second and third (or third and fourth?) times. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to hurt you again.” Honesty. Raw emotion. The Ice Queen hath melted. Throw a fucking party.

Vanessa had shrugged, slithered down the mattress, taken Brooke into his mouth, and worked him nearly to the edge before pulling away with a grin, saliva shiny on his chin.

“Nah, baby. I know the score already.” He swiped a hand over his mouth. “And when you know the score, it makes playing the game way easier.”

They they’d fucked like nothing had changed, Vanjie’s legs wrapped around Brooke’s waist, heels spurring him on to greater speeds and depths. Brooke’s hands drifting over Vanessa’s body, lithe fingers wrapped gently around his neck, never too hard but just enough, just so, just _right._

No one’s ever known Brooke’s body the way Vanjie does. Known every freckle and pulse point and where on his neck to suck and how hard and how long before Brooke falls apart in his arms.

So maybe that’s why he plays along.

They lie apart after (hands lacing in the air, fingers tracing tattoos and veins and muscles) and decide it’s okay for now. For the tour, while they’re in such close proximity every day, they can fuck and touch and not feel anything. As long as they know the score, and as long as no one else knows.

But Vanessa’s bad at keeping secrets.

* * *

Officially, Silky’s the first, and that’s not really all that surprising.

She spots a hickey on Brooke’s collarbone one morning at breakfast and stares Vanjie down.

Vanessa is good at a lot of things, but acting isn’t one of them. So he tells Silky, who doesn’t hesitate to add her own opinion about what they’re doing (“this is a clusterfuck waiting to happen. I done _told y’all._ Go on and do what you want, but don’t expect me to fix your shit later on, Miss Motherfucking Vanjie. No ma’am. We done did that once already.”)

So Silky’s the first, and A’keria is the second (naturally), but she just sighs and pulls her lips into a terse grin and nods.

(Brooke pretends not to hear A’keria tell Vanjie to be careful as they embrace. Tries to remember that to everyone concerned, he is the bad guy, responsible for destroying Vanessa. He pretends not to hear, but he does.)

After that, maybe they get a little less careful.

Vanjie turns up on Brooke’s live video (because we are okay; I did not break this; he did, and here he is half-naked in my bathroom after a quickie in the shower because it’s fine. We’re fine fine _fine_ ).

Brooke leaves bite marks on Vanessa’s shoulders that require extra makeup. In retaliation, Vanjie scrapes his nails down Brooke’s back, leaving scratches that must be covered. It’s part of the game: mark your territory, let them know, make them understand.

Asia is next to find out, but her reaction isn’t what they anticipated. She eggs them on, posts video to her Instagram of the two of them (which they repost to their own stories, of course they do), gets the rumors swirling amongst the fans. Neither of them really minds. Secretly Brooke wonders if maybe they’re both hoping fan pressure will force them back together one day. That’s totally healthy.

Then there’s Nina. Brooke breaks down and tells her one night after too many tequila shots (he wasn’t drinking until he started fucking Vanjie again, and that should probably mean something, register as something deeply problematic in his brain, but the room is spinning and Nina is his best friend and at least he isn’t smoking again).

“We’ve been having a lot of sex,” Brooke slurs.

“I fucking knew it!” Nina slaps the bartop with a fist. “Monet so owes me twenty bucks. Anyway. Sorry. What?”

“Me and Vanj. We fuck like… Every night almost. I don’t think he’s stayed in his own room the whole tour.”

Nina nods, sips her wine carefully. “This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you this is a bad idea, right?”

Brooke shrugs. “I don’t fucking know. You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to tell somebody and you’re like, my best friend here.”

Nina opens and closes her mouth several times, like she can’t quite sort out what she wants to say. She settles for draining her glass, motions for a refill, before she places a hand on Brooke’s arm.

“Just…” Nina sighs. “Whatever you do, don’t let him off blame-free this time, okay?”

Brooke glances up, narrows his eyes. _How?_

Nina shakes her head. “I’m pretty good at reading you after all this time. Your heart was broken, but not the same way Vanjie’s was. Not the way a heart breaks when it’s the one that refuses to bend a little.”

* * *

It’s only a couple of weeks, but it feels longer and heavier and more meaningful than the whole four months of their actual relationship. The blinders are off now. They’re together practically all the time, no separation of time zones or borders or oceans.

And one night after a show, when Vanessa is sprawled across Brooke’s bed, lamplight glistening off the glitter that’s ever-present on his skin, Brooke _knows_. What’s more is that he knows he has to tell Vanjie, and that’s some scary shit.

He’s tried to tell him in their lovemaking. It’s been different lately, more smooth caresses and less brazen desire. Brooke takes his time; runs his thumb over Vanessa’s perfect fucking mouth and those goddamn cheekbones; stares reverently into his eyes as they build their rhythm (it never takes too long—their minds may want to forget, but their bodies do not); whispers Vanessa’s name into his hair as he comes.

He can do all that, but he can’t work up the energy to just _fucking say it_.

So Brooke pushes up from the bed because he needs a glass of water (he’s killing time), and he’s staring himself down in the mirror, working up his courage when Vanessa says _it_.

“I think we gotta stop this.”

Brooke stops. Drains the glass. Exhales. Tightens his hand into a fist and briefly considers… No. “You’re - probably right.”

He isn’t. He isn’t right. Brooke knows this just as much as he can tell Vanessa does, but he won’t be the one to drag things out, to force them, to give Vanessa a false sense of hope and convince him that he’s changed when he isn’t sure he can. He _wants_ to. It’s just… 

If there were ever anyone worth changing for, it’s Vanessa. But he’s walking away. Leaving Brooke. And he can’t (won’t) blame him. Self-preservation. 

There’s a conversation. They say a lot of things and nothing at all, not really. At least, nothing that Brooke can remember.

Vanessa leaves his room that night, goes to sleep in his own for the first time all tour.

Brooke sends Courtney and Nina a string of indecipherable texts full of Emojis, lets them think he’s drunk. Random ones: the cats, the stupid faces, food, anything he can think of over and over again it doesn’t matter until those four—their four—are gone from his frequently used section. 

“We should have been more careful,” Brooke says into his pillow that’s still damp with perspiration and still smells like Vanessa. As if caution could have changed anything. “I just never could keep a damn secret.”

**Author's Note:**

> The ninth in the Behind Closed Doors Series. We'll be posting one for the next two days until the entire series is complete.


End file.
